


sometimes i wish we were still in love

by baeklisa



Category: BLACKPINK (Band)
Genre: Angst, Depression, F/F, Monologue, Past Relationship(s), also jisoo isnt dead btw, basically rosie’s late night rambling as she reminisces jisoo, if this counts as copying im sorry, jisoo doesnt even appear in the fic, the writer who inspired this ily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:07:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25881832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baeklisa/pseuds/baeklisa
Summary: Rosie decides to reminisce where she first met Jisoo, 10 years ago at a coffee shop in Berlin. Times were simpler then.
Relationships: Kim Jisoo/Park Chaeyoung | Rosé
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	sometimes i wish we were still in love

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [delinquent fantasy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25386607) by Anonymous. 



> hi this work is inspired by aahfuc on ao3 and i took like 2 sentences straight from them go read their fic if you care it’s really nice. also this is super angsty be warned

This Berlin trip wasn’t needed. Or frankly, maybe it was - for Rosie’s peace of mind.

Her dainty figure walks through the door, her shadow preceding her footsteps, and brain paying no mind to the ring that signifies her entrance. She pays no mind to none of the ameliorated design of the furniture compared to the one from ten years ago, nor does she pay any mind to the wave of new faces sitting on said furniture, chatting in tens of different languages as they spewed mindless ice-breakers and stupid gossip over shit back home. The furniture has improved, the counter is fine marble instead of polished wood, her designated waitress is not the same one, young faces have been replaced by younger ones, and Chaeyoung can feel pain shooting up her spine as she sits down, but only a small amount. She doesn’t just ignore it all, she rather spurns it as the feeling of tuning it all out has always and will always be so much better, and she chooses to focus on herself - as always. 

The book in her hands -  _ Great Expectations  _ by Charles Dickens - remained all the same as it did a decade ago, the same ash gray tennis skirt, albeit the one whose elastic belt weakly hung off Chaeyoung’s hipbones compared to how perfectly it used to fit, the same simple pastel blue button up, albeit the one that hung off her frame somberly, as if sewn for a different person completely. The same black boots that she once wore to cover up her height, that felt much heavier than they once did, the same blindingly white polish coating her anile nails, the same blonde hair growing out her scalp, much more worn than it was the day she first walked into that coffee shop. It had all stayed the same, Chaeyoung would like to think, and nobody had the heart to disrupt her utopia and admit to her that despite the efforts to make it all the same again, it’ll never be what it once was.

And she sits at the 4th table to the left from the doorway, opting to ignore the way the modish chair failed to squeak at the contact like her old one did, and opens her book on page 68. A waitress struts over, and Chaeyoung’s words come out of her almost subconsciously, as if a repeated mantra. Because Chaeyoung’s memory never fails, and the mnemonic of her usual order, two chocolate croissants and a cappuccino, rolls herself off her tongue as if she’s said it forever. Which maybe she has. Years are nothing but a blur of time, not even worth memoirs, because Chaeyoung’s time isn’t valued by standard measures, it’s valued by journeys and events, it’s valued by people and just how big of a stamp can they put on her life. Maybe that’s why time hasn’t passed.

She sits, waiting for her order, and reads the page paragraph by paragraph, as her wrist watch reads 11:07. Her chocolate croissants arrive somewhere along the way. Chaeyoung munches down on half of one, and continues reading. And she reads. And reads. And somewhere along the way, she stops reading new words and she’s stuck in the loop of the same ones. 11:15. As the door opens once again, she doesn’t have the heart to look up at the person entering, because she knows she’ll be disappointed. A gust blesses the room, and as it entagles its way through Chaeyoung’s hair, it gives her hope for a split second as she can hear an oh-so-familiar voice speaking to her in awful German, tone below a whisper, so she could be the only one to hear it, to cherish the moment, even as decades go by. And the gust passes as suddenly as it came, and Chaeyoung is left with nothing but deafening silence, one that makes her want to go mad. 

_ Jisoo, I know you don’t love me anymore, and I know I don’t love you anymore, but sometimes I wish we were still in love. And I wanna turn my back and sleep, but the humid air is killing me. How did you and I ever like Berlin? _

_ My throat feels dry, but it’s not felt any other way for a long time, anyways. And it doesn’t matter to me, at all. The ceiling isn’t spinning anymore, and I wish I could see the cool melange of beautiful reds that I always told you about once again, but I don’t see them anymore. Aren’t you happy? I’m not, but I know you would be.  _

_ My palms itch for something, anything to take my mind off of everything, and I try so hard as to not give into my sinewy and frankly rugged temptations, but does it really matter? Life is but a collection of minor events, that truly mean nothing to nobody, in the grand scheme of everything, and it all collapses down to our brains giving out, one by one, because I know you know I doubt they’ll go simultaneously. If you heard me right now, you’d say it’s awfully nihilistic. And it is. I can’t help it. _

_ I shift my weight onto my right hipbone. But I know that won’t call for sleep - it’ll call for more existential dreads and doubts that I’m sure you could always somehow hear. My lucky side has always been left. I know I made you lonely. And I wish I didn’t. I always wished I could fix it. And I was always so sure you could hear me because I always heard you. You were so loud, Chu. Your expressions spoke through speakers, and I could hear everything. It made me go mad. I wanted to not be me. I still do. Because I don’t know if you deserved better than me, and at the same time you were wondering if we weren’t right for each other, because, goddamn, you were so loud. But did it ever really matter anyway? What’s it gonna mean when you’re six feet under? _

_ I wish we would’ve talked but it’s so much easier to bite my tongue, anyway. I always bit my tongue. Because most things should be left unsaid, as not to disrupt fate, or at least, disappoint God in one way or another, because the universe would be left upset at me for doing something I shouldn’t have done. You would be upset at me for something I shouldn’t have done. So maybe it’s best to keep quiet. And silence is what encouraged this redolence of putrid decay to haunt me day and night. Maybe decay’s not the best word. My brain is decaying, rotting, by every memory that passes, but my feeble limbs remain the same, reminding me I’m a body, and I control. Sometimes I feel like an intruder in my own brain, and I look at the scattered, dying parts and I feel disgusted. I told you about it. You said you understood. You didn’t. _

_ You made me feel, Jisoo. You made me feel content, something that resembled happiness. At some point you made me feel something I’ve not felt since I was a kid, or since I took my first pill. I touched your lips, and it felt like God had collected stardust and unspeakable fantasies, hardened them and placed them on your body, so anyone who touched them would be blessed. I touched you, and it felt like you were not worthy of being touched by such putrid hands of mine, you were to be touched by only angels, who would handle your delicacy and pulchritude with hands crafted of clear snow, as anyone else would fail to touch you in a manner you deserved. But I touched you, felt you anyway. _

_ I’m happy you made me feel for a while. And I’m sorry. _

_ You had the displeasure of crawling into my fetid soul, and you were molded by these foul hands of mine, and you came out emptier than you should have. I say sorry, but I don’t know if I mean it. Somehow, the thought of you thinking so similarly made me feel less lonely, despite it making you feel the opposite. You’d argue your feelings matter more to you than mine, because, in the end, I’m the one who failed you. And I’d stay silent, because most words are better left unsaid, but also because they don’t matter. Mine don’t, and yours don’t either. None of it does. _

_ I lay on my back, the heat radiating from the freshly-washed hotel sheets makes me feel sick, but my limbs are too heavy to move. I shift to the left. Sleep has finally decided to creep up on me. The pills seem to be working. Or maybe that’s just my lucky side. _

_ I laid right here, in this place, with you, on an equally hot summer night in Berlin. Our backs touched. I stared out the window, and wished I could steal one of the stars from the sky in exchange for everything I ever owned, so you could have one, and keep it close to your heart inside of your favorite dark blue blazer, and just see how superior you are to it. _

_ When we last slept, our backs didn’t touch anymore. I couldn’t stomach that. _

_ When I think of you, I think of your smile. It’ll always haunt me and I’ll always live with it printed in the back of my skull like a tattoo that I just can’t seem to ignore, and it somehow makes me feel worse day by day. I don’t think I’m quite enjoying the woe this late night memoir is bringing me. I’m followed by a cloud of despondency day and night, yet the thought of you somehow amplifies it in a way I didn’t know was possible. Can sleep come in a quicker wave? _

_ I wish the thought of you didn’t revolt me anymore, yet I’m stuck on this exasperating seesaw between what I feel now, what I felt, and what you made me feel. I loved you. You made me feel like perhaps all the puzzle pieces had finally come together. And yet you repulse me. It’s not that I hate you, I’m just so tired, and completely and utterly used to you. Now I live with the figurative ghost of you, haunting me, reminding me of what you and Berlin once were.  _


End file.
